


Death Makes Angels of Us All

by thegirlwhoknits



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, dark!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwhoknits/pseuds/thegirlwhoknits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will comes up with a logical solution to his "unique" problem, but will it be appreciated?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Makes Angels of Us All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scarimonious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarimonious/gifts).



> This is a bit of a reversal of my first Hannibal fic. Comments are fed, washed, and given a good home!

Elliot Budish—the Angel-Maker—was his first.  He refuses to count Garret Jacob Hobbs, although he will admit he provided the spark to this conflagration.  Hobbs had gotten under his skin; Budish showed him how to carve him out.

There was poetry amidst the back-breaking work of stringing a man from the rafters.  Budish himself had killed killers, after all—elevating them to the same state which Will Graham now bestowed upon him.  It was a fitting end, and as he climbed down to stand amid the straw, covered in blood and sweat, he imagined Elliot smiling down on him. Thanking him, even.

He cleaned himself up carefully and composed his mind for the meeting with Jack and Budish’s wife.  The part of him that had carved the flesh and skin from another man’s bones was firmly walled away, for the time being.  He found himself vaguely irritated that his impeccable surprise at Emma Budish’s information went unnoticed by Jack, who was caught up in revelations of his own.

That irritation turned to disgust later, as not a single person on the elite Behavioral Science Unit team questioned how the man had managed to carve wings out of his own back and then tie himself to a wooden beam.  For the first time he understood the need of serial killers to brag about their work; it was maddening to take such time and care, create such _art_ , and have no one truly appreciate it.

 

Composing his mind—or rather, uncomposing it—for his mandated post-case session with Dr. Lecter was far more nerve-wracking.  He had to hide the newfound calm that Budish’s death had brought him behind his usual nervous tics: shifting his gaze, fiddling with his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose.  He had no idea if his disguise, so unpracticed, could withstand the doctor’s penetrating gaze.  Worse yet, he wasn’t sure he wanted it to.  Somehow he was sure that _Hannibal_ would appreciate the work he had done, would see how much sense it made.  But he would also feel duty-bound to turn him in, and there was no good way for that to end.

In the end, his anxiety about the possibility of discovery added to the authenticity of his performance.  A light sheen of sweat clung to his hairline and his movements were jerky as he made to sit down in the chair opposite Dr. Lecter.

“This case has affected you deeply,” his doctor observed calmly over steepled hands.  “You seem frustrated.”

“We should have found him sooner,” Will muttered angrily.  “Should have stopped him, right after the first victims.”

“And yet, stop him you did.” Hannibal rose from his chair smoothly. “Is that really what bothers you, William?”  He circled around to stand behind Will’s chair, braced his arms to lean over him.  Will could feel his breath stir the sweat-dampened curls.  “Or are you frustrated that no one saw the _elegance_ of your design?”

Will was trapped.  There was no way he could move from his seat and make the door without Dr. Lecter stopping him, and the other man’s strength was clearly superior.  And the slight compliment in Hannibal’s word choice stirred again his desire to be _understood,_ to be _seen._ He let his head fall back against the chair in defeat, allowed himself to voice his resentment.

“It was the only way, the _just_ way,” he argued.  “To give him the death he deserved, not rotting away in some prison hospital, his mind slipping further away every day.”  He took a shuddering breath.  “ _He_ would have appreciated it,” he added bitterly.

Dr. Lecter straightened and moved back to stand in front of Will, his fingertips trailing down the side of the chair.  He crouched, as one would in front of a child one was about to scold, and placed his hands on Will’s knees.

“I understand, William.  Much more than you know.  And it is, indeed, a logical and graceful solution to your… _unique_ problem.”

Will looked down at him wild-eyed, searching for condescension or insincerity, finding none.  His voice was flat when he spoke, however.  “I imagine you need to make a phone call.”

“To Jack, you mean?  No, I don’t believe it will be necessary.  Mr. Elliot was already under a death sentence, after all.  I don’t think it’s truly important who carried it out.”  He rose and settled himself back in the opposite chair, meeting Will’s incredulous stare serenely.  “I do, however, think a discussion of your future treatment is in order.  Wouldn’t you agree?”


End file.
